


Something's Brewing

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Beer, Christmas Tree, F/F, False Accusations, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Roommates, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets, secrets, secrets. </p>
<p>In the build-up to Christmas, Merlin makes the mistake of letting Gwaine know that he has three guilty secrets concerning his boss, Arthur. But Merlin’s terrible at keeping secrets, especially when he’s being plied with Pendragon Breweries Ltd’s latest truth serum – aka “beer”. Meanwhile, Arthur's uncle Agravaine seems to have secrets of his own. Something’s brewing all right: a fermenting mash of false accusations, industrial espionage, malted barley and hops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speckled Dragon's Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wreck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreck/gifts).



> This story is for Wreck. Happy Holidays, and thank you for your wonderful prompts: I hope you enjoy the outcome!  
>  _Warnings:_ for homophobia and mild drunkenness.  
>  _Disclaimer:_ These characters are inspired by the BBC/Shine production "Merlin". I'm doing this for love, not for money.  
>  My eternal thanks to the wonderful **archaeologist_d** , for beta-ing this fic with patience and sensitivity. Any errors that still remain are all mine.

No good can ever come of a _quiet pint_ with Gwaine. Merlin realised this long ago. Especially when that so-called quiet pint is being sampled in the ‘tasting’ bar at the Pendragon Arms, it involves experimenting with suspiciously-named beers, and Gwaine is quizzing him about his secrets. Because, as well as the usual stock, the Pendragon Arms trials an eclectic range of experimental ales from the brewery next door.

The select bunch who frequent the tasting bar are prone more to thoughtful introspection than to the sort of rowdy antics that take place in the public bar. One table hosts a competitive game of dominoes, while at another, a man wearing a beanie hat sits with several part-drunk beers of various shades of brown lined up in front of him. Every so often he scribbles into a notebook. A polite murmur of conversation makes the room seem intimate. It invites disclosures, declarations and divulgences. 

Gwaine and Merlin are sitting close to the open fire, which is traditionally decorated with an array of horse brasses. They’re already finishing their second pint.

“Go on,” says Gwaine, flicking hair out of his eyes. “There must be something you’re hiding from the boss. Some secret you don’t want to come out.”

As far as Merlin is concerned, there are three things that Arthur must never know. Firstly, the location of his Christmas present. And secondly … but Merlin can’t even begin to let himself think about the second thing, because, or so he tells himself, if he ignores it, maybe it will go away. And then there’s the third thing, the small matter of the sheer amount of time and energy he’s lavished on Arthur’s Christmas present. If that ever becomes known, then the second, unthinkable thing might come out.

Merlin shrugs. “No,” he says, sipping his beer.

Gwaine nudges Merlin as he drinks, making him jerk and dribble a tiny bit of beer onto his t-shirt.

"Gwaine!" Merlin rubs at it. "That'll stain, you twat."

“Goooo on,” Gwaine says. “I told you mine!”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Bet there is.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll get you another beer while you think about it.”

“It’s not going to work, but thanks anyway.”

“Don’t talk bollocks. You’ll be telling Uncle Gwaine everything by the end of the evening, you’ll see.”

Gwaine goes back to the bar, whistling tunelessly. The door opens with a blast of cold air and in steps a stooped figure, face hidden by the hood of his sodden raincoat, shaking drops from his dripping umbrella. His shape looks vaguely familiar, as he takes his seat opposite the bloke in the beanie hat, but to be honest Merlin’s already too sozzled to care.

There’s a commotion over at the bar, and Merlin switches his attention back to Gwaine with a sigh. Gwaine’s chatting up Elena, the barmaid, now. Gwaine’s like a terrier. He latches on and won’t let go. He’ll continue until he gets slapped, or fed up, whichever comes first. Merlin’s money’s on the slap.

“Good evening, delightful Elena, Pub Princess!” Gwaine’s saying. “Looking more beautiful than ever. Was your daddy a thief? Did he steal the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes?”

“For God’s sake Gwaine, your lines don’t get any less cheesy with repetition, you know!” says Elena, pulling at the pump handle. Beer gushes out with a frothy gurgle.

“I’m stung!” Gwaine says. He leans across the bar with a leer. Merlin closes his eyes, because he knows Gwaine is trying to get a good look down Elena’s cleavage, and he really doesn’t want to watch. He’s not surprised when there’s a sound smacking noise, and a manly squeak of pain. He winces in sympathy.

“Piss off Gwaine,” he hears Elena say. “You lecherous bugger.”

“You know you love me really.”

Merlin still has his eyes closed, but he can well imagine Gwaine’s suggestive wink, and the way Elena’s face will be darkening, as if she’s going to launch herself over the bar to give him another hearty biff round the chops.

Merlin jumps and finally opens his eyes when there’s a sharp clonk, as Gwaine plonks a pint down in front of him.

“You’re going to get yourself thrown out of here one of these days,” Merlin says, peering at the dark, frothy liquid. “And I won’t defend you either.” The beer looks a bit like treacle. “What’s this one?”

“Peculiar Owd Dragon’s Todger.”

Merlin sighs. “Isn’t that the new, really, really strong one that you’re only meant to drink by the quarter pint?”

“Yep.”

“Arthur told me that it’s not really brewed by Pendragon Brewery, but instead it’s concocted by the devil and his minions in a secret cave, using the entrails of eldritch creatures. That one?”

“Yep.” Gwaine grins evilly. “The one that is allegedly so potent that it makes dragon scales grow on your toes. I will know your secrets, Merlin, one way or another. You might as well tell me while you’re still sober enough to speak without slurring. And while your toes are still able to fit into your battered old Doctor Marten boots.”

Merlin’s just about to taste the beer when he notices that the beanie-hat guy, who surely must be some kind of hyper-nerdy CAMRA type, has turned round to see his reaction. The game of dominoes has come to a sudden halt. All the people in the room are watching him – except the bloke in the wet raincoat, whose face is now hidden behind a newspaper. There's a sudden lull in the normal chatter, so that he can hear the fire crackling as a log shifts, and the steady tick-tick of the pub clock.

He takes a cautious sip. It’s like a cross between liquorice and old socks.

When his eyes uncross and stop watering, he takes another. There’s also a hint of malted barley and hops, a nutty sort of sweetness. Upon reflection, it’s rather good. He takes a long gulp, laughing inwardly at the expectant air in the room.

“Not bad,” says Merlin. Disappointed faces turn back to their various occupations, and the murmur of conversation resumes.

He leans across the table. Well, maybe just one little secret won’t hurt.

“There is one thing that Arthur must never know,” he says, holding up an earnest finger. “One very, very important thing.”

“I’m all ears. Actually, no, that’s you.” Gwaine laughs so hard at Merlin’s incredulous mock-hurt expression that he slops a bit of Peculiar Owd Dragon’s Todger onto the table. Merlin almost expects the varnish to start fizzing. “But I digress. Spill the beans.”

“The location of his Christmas present,” says Merlin, with an arch tone in his voice, and he taps his nose. “Top secret.”  He takes another slurp of the beer, which is growing on him, rather.

“What, that’s it? Is that all?” Gwaine frowns. “I feel cheated. Wait. No. No, I don’t.” He leers suggestively. “You bought him. Our boss. The giant prat with the gorgeous arse. You bought him… A Christmas present? You fancy him, don’t you?”

“No, actually,” says Merlin, feeling defensive, his ears heating up a little bit, because Gwaine must never know the other two secrets, no, no, no. “No, I didn’t buy it. I made it.”

Gwaine’s face goes all sly.

“You mean to say,” he says slowly. “You mean to say that you spent hours and hours creating something beautiful and perfect, for our gorgeous boss, because you wuv him. Awwww.” He flashes Merlin a lascivious grin, swigs from his pint and wipes the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“How did you get all that from ‘I made it’?” says Merlin, blushing.

Gwaine, the bastard, just laughs and flicks his hair with a hand. “I didn’t, I got it from the colour of your face, Merlin, you big girl. Go on, admit it. You have a massive crush on that blond prat, Pendragon.”

Damn, damn, damn. Bloody hellfire. And blast. So much for secrets two and three.

Merlin frowns at the dregs of his Peculiar Owd Dragons Todger, swilling them round the bottom of his glass. Maybe it isn’t really beer, he thinks. Maybe it’s a truth serum. Oh well: in for a penny, in for a pound. He glugs down the rest of the pint.

“You’re not denying it,” says Gwaine. “That’s practically an admission of guilt.” Merlin can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down while he sucks in another great gulp of beer, topping it off with a satisfied belch.

“You do realise,” says Merlin, leaning forward and looking as menacing as he can—which isn’t very, given that he’s already two pints of Speckled Dragon’s Breath and a pint of Peculiar Owd Dragon’s Todger to the good. “You do realise. Gwaine.” He hiccups. What was he saying again? Ah yes. “You do realise. That if you breathe ‘s much ’s one word about this to anyone. Anyone at all.” He waggles a finger. “Speshly Arthur, I will publishise, publish, pub… tell the truth about your parentage to the entire staff of Pendragon Breweries Ltd on the Dragonet intranets.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Just watch me. Lord Gwaine of Orkney.”

“Bastard.”

Merlin nods. “Yup. That’s me. I am a bastard. I freely admit to my iffy parentage. But you’re not. You have a pediwossname. Pedigree. You’ll have to keep on the right side of me, now, your lordship. Otherwise your Marxist credensh…credensh… cred will go right down the tubes. Wait and see what the rank and file make of their associate marketing director being a peer of the realm.”

Gwaine takes a thoughtful sip of his beer and then stares mournfully at his empty glass. “All right. S’ a deal. Let’s seal it with a drink. You’re buying. Mine’s a pint of Nutty Owd Wyvern.”

When he gets up to go back to the bar, he finally gets a view of the CAMRA-type bloke’s companion. It’s Agravaine, and the pair of them are deep in an earnest discussion. CAMRA bloke looks up at Merlin and they lock eyes for a moment.

“Isn’t that your boss over there?” says Merlin, curious. “Talking to the creepy real-ale geek?”

Gwaine looks up and shrugs. “Looks like it. Wonder what brings him to this neck of the woods.” Agravaine, the marketing director of the company, and Arthur’s uncle, works in the administrative office of Pendragon Breweries, in central Camelot. It’s rare for him to be seen outside the centre of town; he’s made no secret of the fact that he considers the village where Merlin and Arthur live, the site of the actual brewery, to be a terribly parochial rural backwater, so whenever he wants anything done at the brewery he gets Gwaine to do it for him.

“Strange,” says Merlin. “I’m sure I’ve seen that bloke he’s talking to, before, as well.” But he can’t quite put his finger on it. Agravaine’s putting his coat back on now, and slipping out of the pub without acknowledging him or Gwaine, accompanying the CAMRA geek, talking quietly into his ear. Merlin can hear a gentle clinking noise when they brush past. He shrugs. He’s had a few too many beers to work it out this evening. It’ll come to him eventually.

“Bloody hell,” says Gwaine, in an admiring tone. “Dunno who he was, but he can put them away, all right!” There are twelve part-empty pint glasses lined up on the table. “Talking of which.” He waggles his fully empty one at Merlin. “Get a move on, mate, I’m dying of thirst here.”

_No, there’s no such thing as a “quiet pint” with Gwaine_ , Merlin thinks, as he staggers up to Elena and waves a tenner at her, trying to attract her attention, a hopeful and non-threatening smile plastered to his face. Merlin is an idiot, because, although he realised this long ago, yet still he keeps saying “yes”.  Or in this case, “yesh”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAMRA is the Campaign for Real Ale.  
> 


	2. Nutty Owd Wyvern

It’s lucky Merlin’s completely silent when he comes in. It wouldn’t do to wake up his priggish flatmate, who also doubles as both his boss, and the man for whom he harbours a secret (or, in fact, after this evening, not-so-secret) crush: the creative director of Pendragon Breweries, Ltd., Arthur Pendragon Esquire.

He tiptoes into the kitchen, proud of the quiet way he fills a glass with water and manages to drink some of it without spilling too much. He admits to himself that the third half-pint of Perky Firedrake’s Gobtickler might have been a mistake, so maybe a glass of water wouldn’t be a bad idea.

He’s just heading back to the sink for a refill when the kitchen door opens and a sleep-ruffled, glaring Arthur pokes his head around it. His hair is rucked up on one side like an extra, blond ear; he looks like a lop-sided, grumpy donkey. This diverting sight sends Merlin into peals of laughter, and the water splashes a teeny, tiny bit.

“Whoops!” he cackles, turning the tap on again, because for some reason his glass is suddenly empty and the floor is mysteriously wet.

“Could you make a bit more noise? _Mer_ lin,” says Arthur, in, uh-oh, his most sarky tones. “Because I think there are people in Camelot who didn’t hear you fall over right outside my room, bang something hard, presumably that thick head of yours, on the door, and shout “Oops-a-daisy!” in a slurred stage whisper.”

“Shh!” says Merlin, putting his finger to his lips. “You’ll wake the posh pillock up… oh wait. It’s you. Sorry!” Smiling at his own devastating wit, he starts to walk across the kitchen towards the door. “You’re pissed off, aren’t you? I can tell.”

“Of course I’m bloody pissed off. It’s 2am and I’m wide a-fucking-wake.” Luckily Arthur just manages to extract the glass from Merlin’s hand before he trips over his own feet and falls into a heap on the floor.

“S’comfy down here.” Finding his head on Arthur’s bare feet, which have cute, wiry little blond hairs on their toes, he’s tempted to kiss them. “Nice golden pillow. Don’t be cross, Mr Mardy-Trousers.” He nuzzles them contentedly instead, closing his eyes, and is a bit upset when they slide out from under him, so that his head bangs onto the cold kitchen tiles.

Arthur sighs. “Idiot,” he says. “You really are a lightweight, aren’t you? And a terrible flat mate. I don’t know why I put up with you. Come on.” Warm hands grab him under the arms and haul him to his feet. A burly limb wraps round his back and he’s propelled towards his room. He feels like he’s floating.

“I b’lieve I can fly!” he croaks, lifting his arms into the air, accidentally spilling water onto Arthur’s pyjama top. “I b’lieve I can touch th’skyyyyyy!”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Spoilsport.” He lurches against Arthur, who steadies him.

Merlin can’t remember getting undressed and under his covers, but a glass of water and two paracetamol are on the bedside table to greet him when he wakes up, late the following day. When he finally emerges, at about two in the afternoon, he winces when he leans over to pull on the black leather trousers he came home in last night. Frowning a little, he vaguely remembers Elena lending them to him because she felt guilty for drenching him in Nutty Owd Wyvern when she threw Gwaine’s pint over on his head.

Arthur gives him the sort of virtuous, smug look that can make you go off people, no matter how gorgeous their golden hair and skin might be. Speaking of which, said hair is just a tad too bright and shiny for Merlin's liking. He pulls his sunglasses down over his face with a pained frown.

“Good afternoon, _Mer_ lin,” says Arthur in his most lofty tone, the one that makes Merlin want to punch that perfect, patrician nose, or kiss it, he's not sure which. “So glad you are alive. I was beginning to consider sending in a search party, but was worried that they’d be poisoned by the fumes in that pit that passes for your cave.”

When Arthur steps up to him, removes his sunglasses and looks him up and down, Merlin feels himself wilting under the heat of his gaze.

“What?” Merlin croaks. Oh God. He can barely manage monosyllyables.

“You. Sunglasses indoors? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re dressed like a chav. Don’t you have any decent clothes to wear?” He goes over to Merlin’s bedroom door and pushes open the door, striding to the wardrobe.

Merlin panics. “Wait!” Arthur can’t look in there, it’s got his Christmas present in it. “No, you can’t go in there. It's…”

Arthur rattles the wardrobe, but thankfully Merlin remembered to lock it.

“Locked.” His knees feel a bit weak, and he sinks down to the cold kitchen floor. It’s hard on his bony behind. He has a vague fantasy about cuddling Arthur’s warm feet on this floor. Frowning, he wonders where that’s come from.

Arthur comes back from Merlin’s bedroom, and throws a slightly stained “Pendragon Breweries” t-shirt at him. “I can’t think why you’d lock your wardrobe,” he says, lips pursed, fixing Merlin with that disapproving glare that normally has him weak at the knees, but not at this very moment, firstly because he’s already sitting down, and secondly because his post-bender nausea threatens to propel him to the bathroom at any minute. “It’s not as if anyone would want any of the clothes in it. Did your mum buy them for you before you went to university?”

“Maybe if you paid me more, I’d be able to afford some new clothes, you sarcastic wanker. Not all of us can afford to shop at bloody Abercrombie and Fitch, you know. And anyway not all of us want to look like bloody public-school posh-git clones.” Merlin’s head is throbbing, but at least he can now manage polysyllables. Things are looking up. Pulling the t-shirt on, he glares at Arthur, who smirks.

“Well maybe, Merlin, you shouldn’t spend all your money at the pub, on that layabout, Gwaine.”

“That’s a bit rich. It’s all your fault, you know, every time you make a new, ridiculously-named potion, Gwaine feels the need to try it out on me. I’m beginning to feel like the royal food taster. Do you know I had to check my feet this morning because he persuaded me that Peculiar Old Dragon’s Todger will make me grow scales on my toes? This is not beer tasting, it’s a medical trial. You should be registered with NICE. "

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Funnily enough, even though you try to blame me every Saturday morning when you feel like a dragon has dumped in your mouth, I never see anyone holding you down and pouring it into your throat, Merlin. Face it, you should spend less time in the pub with Gwaine, and more time in the office doing your job.”

Merlin’s mouth does indeed feel as though like a small, mythical reptile has crawled inside it, crapped, curled up and died. Feeling a sudden urge to clean his teeth again, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I spend too much time there already, running around after my workaholic, perfectionist boss.”

Arthur wafts his own nose theatrically, as if to get rid of the smell. “Urgh,” he says. “Fumes. Anyway, I’ve hardly seen you at all recently.” He frowns and pushes out his lips in a perfect moue, so that Merlin is tempted to duck in and kiss them, and has to bite his own bottom lip to stop himself.

“I don’t believe you, Arthur," he says instead. "Are you jealous of how much time I’m spending with Gwaine? Honestly, it’s worse than having a toddler!”

Because if there’s one thing that Merlin can do without, it’s getting hassled by Arthur Pen-Bloody-Dragon for not paying him enough attention. Okay, so he’s possibly been doing fewer hours recently, but that’s mainly because he’s been working so hard on Arthur’s surprise Christmas present. He hasn’t realised that Arthur’s noticed. But never mind, it’s just about finished now. He just needs to wrap it and then it’ll be done.

“Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin.” Grabbing him under his arms, Arthur pulls him to his feet. “C’mon.”

Merlin tries to ignore the way that his treacherous, albeit hungover, body thrills at the mere touch of Arthur’s fingers. “What?” he says, feeling sulky.

“You are going to have breakfast,” says Arthur, “and then you’re going to help me to choose a Christmas tree. And then you’re going to decorate it to my specifications.”

"It's the weekend! Give me one reason why I should do this with my limited and precious time off instead of sleeping?”

Arthur frowns, grabs Merlin in a wrestling hold, and presses his knuckles to Merlin’s head until he shouts. “Ow! You are an absolute nightmare, you insufferable wanker.” God, that hurts. He wriggles out from under Arthur’s arm and punches it. Arthur laughs.

“Because, _Mer_ lin, you are an idiot, and you can’t say no to me. You know you’re going to end up doing it, so you might as well stop bleating about it.” The arrogant git flashes a smile at Merlin. “It’ll be fun.”

Merlin sighs and resigns himself to spending his weekend acquiring pine-needle rash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NICE is the National Institute for Clinical Excellence, the UK’s equivalent of the FDA. They decide which prescription drugs can be administered by the UK National Health Service.  
> 


	3. Idris's Kiss

Hanging Christmas lights is not a brilliant hangover cure, but Merlin has to admit it has its compensations. While Arthur is draping the lights at the top of the tree, Merlin concentrates on two things: first, decorating the bottom with baubles, and second, the thrilling view this affords him of Arthur’s arse.

The way that Arthur’s fine arse fills his jeans is criminal. It probably shouldn’t be allowed out in public. And it’s a welcome distraction from the utter gibberish that Arthur is spouting from his mouth. Merlin zones out the noise, and feasts his eyes on the way that Arthur’s pert rump strains against his trousers, when he reaches for the uppermost branches, instead. He imagines the rhythmic flex of those glorious bum muscles in an entirely different context, and has to bite his lip to stifle a whimper.

Arthur’s rabbiting on about one of his favourite topics - Merlin’s utter inability to hold his beer, and thus his unsuitability as Arthur’s assistant.

“I can’t believe you are such a lightweight, Merlin,” he scoffs. “It’s bad enough that you fall over after a mere three pints, you’re absolutely good for nothing the next day.”

He fusses over the disposition of the lights, turning towards Merlin and thus presenting him with an uninterrupted, eye-line view of Arthur’s intriguingly contoured groin. Merlin gulps and lets a bauble drop through his fingers. It smashes into smithereens on the floor, with a loud tinkling noise, which makes him jump and dislodge some tinsel from the tree. A Christmas cracker tumbles onto his head. He catches it and tries to head off Arthur’s eye-roll with a disarming smile. It doesn’t work. 

Merlin kneels to survey the damage, putting a hand down to steady himself.

“Ow!” he says. He’s managed to cut his hand on a shard of broken bauble. Blood oozes from the wound. He puts it to his mouth and sucks.

“Merlin! It beats me how a moderately competent PA can be such a a complete imbecile at weekends?” Arthur grumbles, descending from the ladder and examining his hand with a frown.

“At least I’m not a shallow, repressed bastard who bases their entire judgment of character on the amount of beer someone can consume without puking.” Attack is the best form of defence.

“There you go confusing me with Gwaine,” Arthur snaps back. “You are definitely spending too much time with him.”

Merlin breathes out a disappointed sigh when the lovely jeans leave his line of sight in search of a dustpan and brush. Merlin stands to help, but is thrust out of the way.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur says, continuing his theme relating to Merlin’s incompetence. “You haven’t got shoes on. Go and get your hand cleaned up. I don’t want blood all over the floor, idiot.” He bends to sweep, firm buttocks swaying gently.

Wrenching himself away from this diversion, Merlin goes to get a plaster.

“You really are a clumsy oaf, you know that?” says Arthur, who's still reaching under the sofa for bits of bauble when he hastens back, and clearly not expecting a reply, which is just as well, because Merlin’s not really listening. The sight of Arthur on hands and knees with his arse high in the air is just too distracting.

“Normal people can dress a Christmas tree without scattering razor-sharp bits of glass all over the floor.” He glares at Merlin and walks away, carrying the dustpan and continuing his litany of Merlin’s shortcomings. “It’s a jolly good thing you’re a decent personal assistant, because in every other area of normal common-sense practicality, you are a walking liability.”

“At least I’m not an entitled arse,” mutters Merlin. Most of the time he can ignore Arthur’s constant carping, which is normally laced with genuine affection, but he’s feeling a bit vulnerable today, and there’s sharp pang developing somewhere in his chest.

It must show when Arthur comes back from the kitchen, carrying a stepladder, because his face softens a bit, as if he realises he’s gone on a little bit too much, and he punches Merlin in the arm. This is as close to an apology as Arthur gets. Merlin punches him back in acceptance.

And soon it’s all forgotten anyway. Because now Arthur is half way up the ladder, buttocks jiggling gently as he attempts to manoeuvre the fairy into place on top of the tree, and Merlin is holding the ladder still for him. Merlin’s face is pressed hard up against Arthur’s lovely firm buns. They warm his cheeks and he is trying hard not to salivate or turn his mouth round to just give them a little nip.

The thought makes his arms go a bit wobbly for a second, and he’s rewarded with sarcasm, as usual.

“Hold still, Merlin, and stop jogging the ladder,” says Arthur, tearing off a strip of sellotape with his teeth. “Honestly, I know 12-year old girls with better upper-body strength than you. You should come to the gym with me.”

“Says the man who insisted on getting a 40 foot high tree,” says Merlin. He wonders when he’ll get over this obsession with his straight boss’s lovely arse cheeks, but for now he’s not sure he cares.

“You’re exaggerating as usual. Just another sec, nearly there.” 

“Pot, kettle.” Merlin panics. He doesn’t want this moment to end yet. He’s secretly delighted when Arthur curses and the fairy falls down.

“Get that for me, Merlin, would you?” he says. Merlin hastily bends to retrieve the fairy. When he looks up, Arthur’s looking down at him for a second, massaging his hairline with his middle finger like he does when he’s trying to work something out, and there’s a strange look on his face when his gaze flicks away, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Merlin proffers the fairy up to Arthur and smiles when Arthur, noticing that the sellotape has got all rucked up and stuck to itself, curses fluently.

“Bloody hellbumming fuckbugger,” he says. “Shitbags and dragon cojones.”

“Better not use that sort of language in front of my mother,” says Merlin, passing him another piece of tape and trying not to make it too obvious that he's gawping at Arthur’s crotch area, which is mouth-wateringly close to his line of sight.

Arthur chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behaviour when she comes to visit.” Merlin’s mother and Arthur’s sister are coming to stay for the Christmas period. Merlin’s a little bit nervous – he’s never met Morgana, and Hunith has never met either Arthur or his sister before. He hopes she doesn’t lay it on too thick with childhood anecdotes.

He returns happily to his position. If he inhales deeply enough he can smell Arthur’s warm, earthy masculinity. It is driving him mad with frustration really, but surely it’s worth it for another minute or two cuddling Arthur’s bum.

Pressed up against him like this, Merlin can feel taut muscles contract as Arthur reaches up, high, to get the fairy in place. The sensation fires his imagination. Brain swirling with fantasies about those muscles clenching and relaxing, he gulps to avoid giving himself away by moaning. Letting go with one hand, he surreptitiously adjusts himself through his jeans, and then hastily returns his grip to the ladder when it gives an alarming wobble.

“Merlin!”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Concentrate, you idiot.” Arthur’s weight shifts slightly as the fairy finally slots onto a branch.

Although Arthur can’t see him, he smirks when he says “will do, boss,” in a far from contrite voice

“And stop calling me boss.” He can feel Arthur’s laugh rumbling through his clothes.

“Fine, prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Numbskull.”

“Dimwit.”

"Plop brain."

"Noodle head."

They can continue in this vein for hours. The familiar exchange of insults has for a long time been the foundation of their relationship, and it never fails to raise a smile.

“Y’know, we never had a tree like this,” says Merlin, when they finally run out of epithets. “My mum has a battered old artificial one that she brings out every year. I think it’s from the 70s. It’s probably a bit of a fire hazard.”

“We didn’t either,” says Arthur. “I think that after mum died, Father just couldn’t face having a tree. He was never fond of Christmas, really.” His voice is a little deeper and thicker than usual. Merlin wants to kick himself for bringing it up at all, but that is the nature of grief, as he knows all too well, it strikes when it will, and there is no way to stop it.

Remembering that Christmas Day is also Arthur’s birthday, his stomach lurches. What sort of Christmas did Arthur have growing up, he wonders? What sort of birthday is it, when it’s the anniversary of your mother’s death? What should be the two happiest annual celebrations that punctuate any child’s life, are surely eclipsed by such grief. Imagining a little lost boy, eagerly trying to please his stern, grieving father, he feels his throat tightening.

He swallows and turns his head minutely so that his face is pressed against Arthur, and he can breathe in his comforting scent. “Isn’t that when the brewery name changed?” he says, casting about for a subject change.

Arthur nods. “Yeah – Father took over the business when Mum died, so it changed from duBois Brewers to Pendragon Brewery. It must have been so hard for him, a single father, widower, with a newborn baby, trying to make a failing business thrive… I… I admired him for that, whatever his faults may have been. I’ll miss him,” Arthur carries on. “It’ll be my first Christmas without him. But maybe this year we can make Christmas a little less…” his hand flutters as if he’s struggling and failing to articulate what Christmas has been like for the Pendragons over the years.

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “Or a little bit more… well.” Bloody hell, he can’t think of the words either. “Well, anyway, it shouldn’t be a problem, not with my mum coming. She’s festiveness personified. You’ll be OK, mate.” 

Arthur sighs. “Cheers,” he says, eventually. “I’m glad you’ll be here. And your mum too. And even Morgana.”

Merlin feels a twinge of loss when the Arthur-filled jeans finally descend from the ladder.

They survey their handiwork. The tree looks gorgeous, and so does Arthur, all flushed with the satisfaction of a job well done, a rare, unselfconscious grin lighting up his face. They exchange delighted smiles and Arthur steps forward. For a moment Merlin thinks he’s going to give him a hug but then he reaches out a hand to shake instead, and Merlin has to fight to stop the disappointment from showing on his face.

“Thanks, Merlin,” says Arthur, with a serious expression. “I know I sometimes forget to tell you, but I… I really appreciate you… everything you do for me. And for just being there for me. As a friend. You know. When my father…” He gulps and looks away.

Why does he have to do this? It is just about bearable, pining after Arthur when he’s being an entitled prat that Merlin can rail against, but it slays Merlin when he is all vulnerable and sincere like this.

“No worries,” whispers Merlin, raising a half smile, to distract attention from the way his heart is melting in a bruised and messy puddle all over the floor. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He’s falling precipitously in love with his straight, oblivious, gorgeous prat of a boss. And the fact that it’s such a cliché doesn’t make it any less painful. 


	4. Mulled Dragon's Piddle

They celebrate the raising of the tree over a glass of mulled Dragon’s Piddle over at the Pendragon Arms. Arthur refuses to listen to Merlin’s protests.

“Hair of the dog that bit you,” he says.

“But I was bitten by a large malted dragon!” says Merlin. “This is merely a small reptile with sharp teeth. It yaps, Arthur.”

“Dragons don’t yap, you numpty, and neither does beer. Try it,” says Arthur, shaking his head. He gives Elena a little wave. She’s busy, it being Saturday, but luckily Mithian’s there as back up. “A couple of half-pints of mulled Dragon’s Piddle please, Mith.”

She nods. “I’ll bring them over,” she says. “Hey, Elena, can we mull another flagon?” The ladies busy themselves with preparing the nectar, and soon the heady smell of warm alcohol fills the room.

Merlin still feels a bit nauseous when Elena slides the glass over to him. He takes a small sip, and then another. It’s warm and sweet, with a hint of lemon, and it fills his throat with a rosy glow. He can feel his hangover relaxing with every tiny slurp.

Arthur’s watching him, lips quirking up at the corners.

“All right,” says Merlin, “I admit it. That’s actually pretty good. Thanks.”

“Told you,” said Arthur, insufferably smug as always. He glugs his own half pint. “I specifically designed this one for cold, hungover Christmas mornings.” He passes a hand across his lips. Merlin tries not to watch, and fails. Those arrogant lips always hold his attention; it’s worse than having a TV in the pub. He doesn’t always take much notice of the noises they make, but he’s certainly fascinated by the tantalising way they part when Arthur speaks, and by the hint of a pink, moist tongue that snakes out from time to time.

Merlin realises that Arthur’s stopped speaking and is waiting for a reply.

“Er – sorry? What?” he says.

Arthur sighs. “You’re hopeless,” he says. He has a warm expression in his eyes when he gets up. “I was just asking you if you wanted another one. “

Merlin nods.

When Arthur returns, they sit in companionable silence for a bit. Merlin occasionally takes sidelong peeps at Arthur, to check that he’s still there and to just enjoy the sight of Arthur’s perfect chiselled jawline.

They look up when the door opens; it’s Agravaine. Merlin sighs inwardly.

“Ah, Arthur,” Agravaine says, ignoring Merlin. “So glad to see you. Wanted to talk something over with you. Can I get you a drink? I’ve heard that the Dragonhumpers Revenge is pretty good? Or maybe Idris’s Kiss?”

“Sure,” says Arthur. “Take a seat? Actually I’ll have a Gnarly Owd Dragonwhiskers, please. Merlin here will have a half of mulled Dragons Piddle, because he’s a lightweight. Oh, and can you get some dry-roasted peanuts? Thanks.”

Agravaine gets a disapproving expression on his face, the one he always gets when he looks at Merlin, and Merlin sighs. “It’s all right,” he says, raising his still full half-pint glass. “I’ll stick to this one thanks.”

When Agravaine returns with the beers, he sits next to Merlin, opposite Arthur, and deliberately turns his shoulders away from Merlin, so that Merlin is effectively shut out. Feeling excluded and unimportant, Merlin frowns at Agravaine’s shoulders. Arthur’s uncle has always been a bit like this with him, treating him almost like he doesn’t exist, like he’s not a real person. He doesn’t know why, and it depresses him. He sips his mulled Dragon’s Piddle and reaches awkwardly round Agravaine’s right elbow to get at the peanuts.

“Have you thought about my suggestion?” says Agravaine. “These artisan beers are all very well, but the mass-produced lagers have a fantastic profit margin, especially if you import the hops from eastern Europe, and follow a more industrialised brewing method. If I was running the brewery—and, as you know, I have always believed that after your father’s death the board should have appointed a more mature hand to steer the ship—I would definitely be wanting to shift away from this niche, artisan market.”

“I have thought about it, but the answer is no,” says Arthur, frowning. “That’s not the direction I want to take this brewery. Sales are going up, and we are sticking to our principles. That’s how it will stay. Organic, locally-sourced ingredients, traditional brewing methods, and innovative use of fruit and colour are serving us well, Agravaine. And with respect, Uncle, the board appointed me as creative director, which means that you still report to me. And therefore it is my opinion that counts.”

Merlin can’t see Agravaine’s face, but imagines that he is scowling at this rebuff. “You don’t need to go industrial to be successful,” says Merlin. “We can scale up production here – we’ve got cordial relationships with our local suppliers, and the staff is firmly enfranchised. It’s a great set up.”

Agravaine ignores him as usual; Merlin wonders if he has taken an invisibility potion. He stares gloomily into his empty half pint glass, but not before Arthur flashes him a grateful smile.

Merlin has fuzzy memories of seeing Agravaine in here the previous night with some bloke Merlin nearly recognised, who was wearing a beany hat. He feels his forehead knit together while he tries to work out who beany-bloke had been.

“For example, I’ve been devising a yuletide brew,” says Arthur, eyes bright and animated. “Something a bit unusual and spicy. Something that will appeal to that youthful demographic we’re beginning to target. Real Ale has had such an “Old Man” image about it until recently. I’m hoping to reach younger men and women with this kind of innovative approach.”

Agravaine is picking at the skin on the edge of his thumbnail with his middle finger so that it makes an annoying “tick tick” noise, a nervous habit that Merlin finds excruciating. “What are you considering?”

“Well, take this, for example.” Arthur’s face is positively glowing with enthusiasm as he lifts Merlin's half pint glass. “The mulled Dragons Piddle. Its comical name is designed to appeal to people out to have a good time, but it tastes good too. Its sweetness appeals to girls, like Merlin here.”

“Oi!”

Arthur ignores his protests. “You know, like the mulled cider market. Getting women to drink beer is a difficult proposition, as you know. We’ve taken steps to make this product more sophisticated looking; it comes in a sculpted glass, designed to look like a dragon’s tail. The hint of lemon is complemented by serving it with a lemon twist.”

“I can see you have thought this through,” says Agravaine looking thoughtful, “but I still think you are making a mistake ignoring the possibilities offered by mass-produced beer at the lower end of the market.” His phone rings. Merlin peers at the display hand to see who it is, but Agravaine darts a shifty look at him, and quickly covers the name with his left hand. “I’ll need to take this, excuse me for a moment.”

Merlin stares at Agravaine’s retreating back when he goes outside. He still can’t quite work out who the other bloke had been, last night. Pale blue eyes, a hint of dark, curly hair under the hat, stubborn-looking mouth. He's seen him before somewhere...

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s your hand?” says Arthur.

“What?” says Merlin, all distracted. “Oh. That. Throbbing a bit, but all right, thanks.”

Arthur’s lip curls in his most sarcastic grin, and his hand massages his hairline. “It’s amazing you have any fingers left, Merlin. You’re such a lanky-limbed, flaily, lumbering idiot. Good thing I was there to clean you up.”

Merlin’s mouth drops open. “Flaily? Is that even a word? And anyway, you never did anything of the sort! You just sat there cleaning the floor. Admit it, Arthur, you’re a fussy old fart.”

“Just because I don’t like to live in a pigsty, Merlin.”

Merlin swigs his beer. “And yet you are incapable of filing or organising your calendar.”

Arthur gapes at him in mock horror. “If I did that, there’d be nothing for my scruffy, imbecilic personal assistant to do.”

Merlin snorts. “What, you mean, apart from answering your phone, sorting out your laundry, getting your dry-cleaning done, buying your sister’s Christmas present and oh, yeah, doing my actual job, writing to suppliers and outlets, organising the accounts, researching the market, and calculating revenue forecasts…” He tails off, a sudden thought occurring to him, when he thinks about researching the market. Something about the latest copy of “What’s Brewing.” That bloke with Agravaine last night—wasn’t there an article about him in it? He can’t quite remember.

“Stop complaining. You know you love it really.” Arthur’s smirking smugly into his beer and Merlin rolls his eyes, because there’s nothing he can truthfully say to that; Arthur's ego is inflated enough already.

When Agravaine comes back, he seems to have forgotten about whatever it was he wanted to talk to Arthur about, because he dashes out of the pub, pint half unfinished, shouting “toodle-oo”. Merlin frowns at his retreating back. _Good riddance_ , he thinks. He and Arthur return to their comfortable bickering.


	5. Spicy Yuletide Dragontamer

Arthur likes to be first into the office. He appreciates having the opportunity to plan his day in peace.

It’s a crisp, bright early-winter’s day. His footsteps crunch on iced-over puddles and his cheeks tingle from the cold. They’re roasting malt today; a characteristic odour somewhere between baked potatoes, yeast extract and popcorn fills the air.

Fumbling with his keys, he unlocks the door to the building, pushing it quietly closed behind him. He steps up to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He takes a quick peep at the headlines in Merlin’s copy of this month’s “What’s Brewing?”, and tucks it under his arm to read while he finishes his tea.

Stepping across the corridor to his office, he unlocks the door, pushing it open inattentively, his eyes still drawn to the latest headline about the declining fortunes of their bitter local rivals, Avalon Brewery, and the young Master Brewer, Mordred Lothian, they’ve brought in to try to inject some new life into the business.

The phone is ringing, but Merlin’s not there yet, so he puts down his tea and presses the button to pick up the call. It’s Agravaine, calling from their administrative office in town. “Arthur.”

“Good morning, Uncle.” Arthur looks at his watch. It’s only 7.15. It’s unlike Agravaine to be calling him this early in the morning. “You’re bright and early today?”

“Yes, listen Arthur, I..I needed to talk to you before your assistant gets in. I just am sorry to say that I think have some bad news for you. I am afraid someone may be leaking secrets to Avalon brewery – and I am worried that it might be your personal assistant.”

“Merlin?” he says, disbelieving. “Don’t be ridiculous, uncle. He’s a dimwit, and a clumsy oaf, but I can’t imagine him ever being disloyal.” Plus he’s kindness personified, and his humour, warmth and compassion have probably been the only things that have got Arthur through the last six months, although it would probably kill him to admit that in public.

“Don’t underestimate the power of cash, Arthur. In addition, I think you have let him become a little bit too embedded in your processes. Just think how catastrophic it could be if he passed across something truly important – like your Christmas ale campaign – to Avalon Brewery?”

Arthur can’t believe that Merlin, who cries at wildlife programs, has a teddy bear named “Dorothy,” and watches Little Women religiously every Christmas with a packet of tissues and a box of chocolate digestives for company; Merlin, his steadfast friend, who sat by his side throughout his father’s funeral, deflecting the attention of the press, even though Uther had once called him a bloody shirt-lifting sodomite, and threatened to throw him out of Arthur’s flat; Merlin with his impossibly crinkly smile, and dangerously full lips, who handled all the accounts, and the suppliers, and pretty much singlehandedly kept Pendragon Breweries in business without ever complaining—at least, not about work, anyway—no, he can’t believe that his Merlin would ever do anything to hurt him.

With this thought comes the realisation that Merlin has long since stopped being just his personal assistant, his flat-mate, and his friend. He is so much more to Arthur than that.

He sighs. “Uncle, I’m sure you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I refuse to believe Merlin would—”

“Read the third page of “What’s Brewing” and then tell me that you haven’t got someone leaking secrets.”

Arthur’s puzzled. “Sorry, Uncle?”

“Just read it, Arthur. I really don’t want to be the bringer of bad news, but I urge you to think about it. And then do something about it. Check. Maybe test him out. Leave him a trap, something like that. Leave some plans out that he doesn’t know about yet. He has a key to the office, if the plans go missing you’ll know it’s him.”

“Uncle, I really don’t—”

“Please, Arthur. Promise me you’ll think about it."

“All right, I’ll do that,” he says, reluctantly.

Just as he puts the phone down, Merlin strides into the office, with two steaming mugs of tea in his hand. He pushes the door closed with a foot and passes a cup of tea to Arthur. Arthur eyes him speculatively while he takes a sip. It’s perfect, as usual.

“Do what?” says Merlin.

“Hmmm?”

Merlin nods at the phone. “You said you were going to do something. To whoever was on the phone?”

“I did?” A bit flustered, and not sure why, he doesn’t react with his usual bluster to Merlin’s playful nudge. “Look, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just—will you go and do some filing or something?” He looks away, shuffling papers, to avoid seeing the hurt expression in Merlin’s eyes. Honestly, there’s no need for him to look at him like that. “Go on.”

Flicking to page 3 of “What’s Brewing?” he frowns. What can Agravaine mean? It’s a full-page advert, by Avalon Brewery, for a new mulled ale called “Firkin Festive Faerie”, served in dragons-tail glasses with a twist of lemon. The advert reads “For a Firkin Festive yuletide, Avalon is Faerie Brilliant!”

What the hell?

The tag line made him wince, but that’s not the point.  The point is that Avalon has pinched his idea.

Avalon Brewery’s ales until now have been terribly unimaginatively named – Faerie Strong Bitter and Faerie Pale Ale are their mainstays. Has Morgause hired a new creative director? Or is this the work of their recently recruited Master Brewer - what's his name again? More-dead Loathsome or something?

His mind is suddenly clouded by doubt. What if Agravaine’s right? Could Merlin be passing on secrets to their competitor?

He looks at Merlin, who has his back to him, and all Arthur can see is the way that a lock of midnight-auburn hair licks under his collar. A curl of it obscures his ear, so that Arthur has to fight a sudden urge to tuck it back into place. Merlin is simultaneously drinking tea and sorting out Arthur’s email. The phone rings and Merlin presses the button to take the call.

“Pendragon Breweries, how may I help you? Oh hi, Gwen! Great to hear from you. What? No, I had no idea. That wasn’t what we originally intended? Agravaine? No, I’ll check with Arthur but I’m pretty sure we don’t want to cancel the deal. How long can Hoptastic keep it open?”

 Arthur can see he is still sorting email as he speaks. How does he do that?

“Can you resend the proposal? Direct to Arthur, here at the brewery, rather than to the business address in central Camelot.” Merlin continues. “Oh right, yeah, of course!” He laughs. “It’s on our website, but I can give it to you on the phone. Yeah, it’s Pendragon Breweries Ltd, Nether Comelybottom, Camelot. The postcode’s CL1A 1AP. That’s AP for Arthur Pendragon. Yeah, I know, cheesy or what? Nice talking to you Gwen.”  He presses the button to end the call, and carries on with the emails, chattering to Arthur all the while.

“Arthur, you wanted to go ahead with the deal with Hoptastic, didn’t you?” he’s saying.

“Yeah, why?” says Arthur, clearing his throat to disguise the sudden tremor in his throat. Hoptastic were a niche supplier of organic hops, and yes, it was a good deal, their hops were artisan, just the sort of thing he wanted for Pendragon.

“Agravaine told Gwen we weren’t interested, apparently.” Merlin turned to him, frowning. “And I couldn’t find the paperwork anywhere? It’s not the first time proposals from suppliers have gone astray between his administrative office in town and here.”

But Arthur’s too distracted to take this in—he’s still processing Agravaine’s earlier call, and puzzled by his sudden curiosity about how Merlin’s hair would feel if he acted on his impulse to tame it.

He purses his lips and scowls. Agravaine’s right. Merlin’s too embedded in his processes. If Merlin ever chooses to take him down, he admits to himself, then it’s quite possible that neither Pendragon Breweries nor Arthur himself will ever recover.

Icy fingers dance up his Arthur’s spine, making him shiver. Surely Merlin wouldn’t…? He feels exposed, his throat constricts at the sudden stab of suspicion.

He fights his reaction as Merlin turns back to the computer. There’s no reason for him to feel this deep sense of betrayal. Merlin is his loyal friend, he’s sure of that. And the public has been able to taste mulled Dragon’s Piddle in the pub attached to the brewery for a few weeks now. It’s not exactly a secret. Anyone could have done this.

He swallows his fears and gets on with his day. But not before resolving to set a test before his friend. Just to make sure.

He’ll drop hints about his new top-secret recipe, the Spicy Yuletide Dragontamer ale, put it in plain view on his desk, and install a surveillance camera in the office. That way, he can keep an eye open to see if anyone tries to sneak it out. 

No-one has a key to his office except him, Merlin and Agravaine.

He won’t tell either of them about the surveillance. He’s almost certain that neither of them will let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What’s Brewing?” is a real publication – the magazine of the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA).


	6. Dragonhumper's Revenge

“Arthur?”

“Mmmm?”

“Have you seen my copy of ‘What’s Brewing’” anywhere?

“Erm. Yes. I think I might have left it on my desk,” says Arthur, mouth full of pasta, so that it comes out like “Mmm. Nfff. Fflkfmm mdmf mfmesk.”

Merlin sighs. How’s he supposed to work out the identity of Agravaine’s mystery contact without his copy of “What’s Brewing”? He shovels in another four or five mouthfuls of his own dinner, gets up to rinse his plate, then starts putting his coat and scarf on.

“Where are you going?” Arthur’s got an unusually sharp note in his voice tonight. Merlin turns to stare at him.

“Back to the office.”

“Why?”

“Because,” says Merlin, puzzled by what a pillock Arthur’s being tonight, “because my bloody entitled prat of a boss seems to think that what is mine is his, and thus bloody well left my trade magazine locked in his own sodding office, and I want it.”

There’s a line appearing between Arthur’s eyes. “Why can’t you wait til tomorrow, _Mer_ lin? You’re not usually this diligent.”

For God’s sake, Arthur is an arsey git sometimes. “Because, Mr Grumpy Noseyparker, I want it now. What’s with all the bloody Spanish Inquisition anyway?”

“Nothing.” Arthur glowers at his plate. “Just wanted a quiet dinner with my flat mate, that’s all.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ll be back in half an hour. Surely you can live without me for that long.”

He turns to the door but he can feel Arthur’s accusing eyes boring into his back even after it’s closed behind him.

When he gets to the office and turns the light on, he can see the magazine on Arthur’s desk, next to a folder marked “strictly confidential”. Ignoring the folder, he picks up the magazine, rifling through it until he gets to the page he remembers.

There it is.

“Mordred’s Mission to Save Avalon,” reads the headline. A full-page picture of the man Mordred, the same man he remembers seeing in the pub with Agravaine, is next to it, _sans_ beanie hat, grinning for the camera.

Merlin is aghast. He stares at the headline, willing it not to be true.

His mind is working through the implications. He remembers the clinking sound that accompanied Mordred and Agravaine when they left the pub, the twelve near-empty pint glasses they had lined up on the table. They must have secretly bottled them, he thought. Right under our bloody noses! Sodding Avalon are researching Pendragon’s latest brews because they can’t come up with their own ideas.

And Agravaine is helping them.

Another thought occurs to him. The cancelled deal with Hoptastic – what if that wasn’t a mix-up? What if Agravaine is deliberately trying to sabotage Pendragon Breweries? He’s made no secret of the fact that he doesn’t like the way that Arthur is running the business, that he thinks it should be him running it.

How on earth is he going to break the news to Arthur?

Heavy hearted, he turns off the light, closes and locks the door, and heads on back home. But when he gets there the place is in darkness.

The next day Arthur leaves for work even earlier than usual, before he has a chance to talk to him.

And Merlin’s still sitting quietly, drinking tea in the tiny kitchen, rifling through “What’s Brewing”, and thinking black thoughts about Agravaine, when Arthur returns. He erupts through the front door like an avenging angel, wreathed in fury and hurt. He stalks up to Merlin, snarling, and hauls him to his feet by his collar.

“Where is it?” he growls. His mouth is a thin line, lips pressed firmly together between gritted teeth. Pale, furious, two spots of red darkening his cheeks, his breath comes in great pants. “Don’t lie to me!” he says. “I trusted you, and you have been lying to me all this time. Well not any more. Where the fuck is it?”

The accusations slice into Merlin’s gut like cold steel. “Lie about what? I haven’t lied about anything to you? What are you talking about?”

“The Yuletide Ale plans, the recipe, all of it was in a folder on my desk, and now it’s gone. You have stolen it, haven’t you Merlin? You’re selling our plans to Avalon. Don’t try to deny it.”

“What?” Tears of fury sting his disbelieving eyes. “I would never do something like that. What the hell are you talking about?”

Arthur’s lip curls up in a snarl. “Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”

Merlin lashes out, indignant. “For fuck’s sake, Arthur, I have never lied to you about anything. How can you think so little of me after all that I’ve done for you? I’m your friend, don’t be such a prick.”  But Arthur grabs Merlin’s flailing fists and backs him up, twisting one of them behind his back, thrusting him face forward against the wall so that his forehead lands with a painful thump.

“Ow! You’re hurting me, stop it. Arthur?” he hisses when Arthur jars his head again.

“I thought you were my friend, Merlin, but it turns out you’re just a fucking gold-digger. How could I ever have trusted you?”

Arthur presses him up against the wall, his arm twisted so far he thinks it might break. He can feel Arthur’s body firm and hot against his back as he struggles and strains, face smooshed up against the cold paintwork, heart pounding.

“Go on, Merlin,” says Arthur, voice low and thick. “Admit it. You picked up the file from my desk last night. I have surveillance. I saw you put something into your bag. You stole the plans, you have passed them on to Avalon. You have been sneaking around behind my back. Putting plans in your locked bloody wardrobe. Well you’re not going to fool me any more.”

“No, you absolute arse, I would never do that.” Merlin’s voice is trembling with the strength of his feeling. How can Arthur think that about him? “How you can say that—how you can even _think_ that—I really don’t know.”

“There was no break-in, and you’re the only one with a key to my office, apart from me, and Agravaine,” says Arthur.

“It wasn’t me, all right?”

Arthur wrenches his arm, savagely. “Who else could it be, _Mer_ lin?” His breath is hot on Merlin’s neck.

Merlin has his suspicions, but doesn’t think Arthur will believe him. With a massive effort, he finally manages to twist out of Arthur’s grasp for a second, turning to aim an inexpert punch at Arthur’s gut, which Arthur easily dodges.

“I don’t know how you can believe such a thing about me,” he says, eyes blurring as he pushes Arthur away from him. “I worked as hard on those plans as you did. Harder.”

“Oh yes, Merlin, go on then, cry like a girl.” Arthur’s lips are turned up in a cruel rictus, a parody of the sweet expression that Merlin loves so much on him. “Because that’s always your reaction to everything, isn’t it. Behave like a colossal girl, and maybe someone will feel sorry for you. Well I’m not having it. You’re a liar. You have been lying to me since we first met, selling secrets to our competitors, and I’m not going to stand for it any more. I want you out of my flat, out of my company, and out of my life.”

The bitterness and sheer injustice of Arthur’s words punch into him, robbing him of speech for a moment. He lets out a great gasp, wrapping his arms around himself as if to protect his heart from Arthur's accusing glare while he works for a moment to get back his ability to talk.

“I was getting my bloody trade magazine," he blurts out, "Look!” Merlin grabs the magazine from the table, still open at Mordred Lothian’s photograph. “I wanted to show you this, but you were asleep when I got home.”

“I wasn’t asleep, Merlin,” yells Arthur, rubbing furiously at his forehead, “I was watching the CCTV footage disbelievingly over and over again when you picked up the plans from my desk, looked at them, and then put them in your bag.”

“I did not! It was this!” Merlin yells back, pointing at Lothian’s picture. “I wanted to show you this, but you were too busy thinking the worst of me, you utter bastard.”

“I don’t see what’s so important about a fucking magazine, Merlin, I simply don’t believe you would go to all this trouble…”

“Fuck you, Arthur!” Merlin’s panting, high on adrenaline and outrage, voice shaking. “As if I could ever do anything against you, you know how much I care for you, or you would if you weren’t such an oblivious idiot. I can’t believe you would accuse me of such things. Me! The idiot who bleeds, sweats and stays up all night because I believe in your ideas, in you.”

He leans back against the wall, suddenly deflated, because there, he’s said it, and Arthur’s still standing there with a hard, accusing expression on his face, and he can’t bear it.

“Merlin, I saw it with my own two eyes. Where did you put the plans, hmm? Are they in your bag? Or in your wardrobe? Is that why you keep it locked?” Arthur laughs grimly.

“Didn’t you hear me, Arthur? I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me. I couldn’t act against you, it would be like shooting myself.”

He gulps and looks at the ceiling, at the Christmas tree, lights forlornly flashing, anywhere but Arthur’s tense and furious face, and then forces himself to carry on, makes himself look at Arthur, because he has to deliver this eye to eye.

“Look. You still don’t get it, do you, you fucking idiot? You still don’t get how much I’m in love with you, do you?” Merlin can feel the corners of his mouth turn down, his lip tremble. “You’ve got this massive sense of inadequacy, thanks to your bloody father, I know he’s dead, and I’m sorry, but he was no saint, Arthur. And you don’t understand how much someone can feel for you.”

“You leave my father out of this.” Arthur almost screams at him, his face distorted, veins standing out on his neck. He surges forward to capture Merlin’s throat with his forearm. But then the rest of Merlin’s words must get through to him, because after a heartbeat his face changes and he releases his hold. “What did you say?”

Merlin barks out a bitter laugh, massaging his neck. “God, yes, you might as well know my guilty secret, Arthur, before you kick me out. God knows why, but I’ve fallen in love, hook, line and sinker, with my boss, who’s straight, and doesn’t even trust me enough to work for him any more. It would be tragic if it wasn’t such a fucking cliché.” He wraps his arms round himself for comfort, throat tightening with the truth, so long denied, and his voice tails off.

He ducks under Arthur’s arm, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands, and stalks to his room, fumbles with his wardrobe door. “God, I’m such a fuckup. Don’t worry, mate, you have your wish,” he adds in a shaky voice. “I’m gone. I’m clearing out of here. I don’t need this, I don’t need you to hate me, I don’t need to pine over my straight boss, and I certainly don’t need the formula to Pendragon Brewery’s secret recipe for yuletide ale.” He manages to get it open, and carefully extracts the still-unwrapped present. “Here, you might as well have this.” He pushes it, wide, heavy and high as it is, into Arthur’s arms. Arthur staggers a little under its sheer weight and then just stands, gazing at Merlin with a stunned expression on his face. “The big sodding secret in my wardrobe. It’s no use to anyone else, anyway. You’ll probably hate it.”

Arthur’s features are swimming in and out of focus. Maybe he’s frowning, it’s hard to tell through a veil of tears.

“So where did you put the plans?” he says, the stubborn prick. “Are they in there too?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, Arthur, for the last time, I didn’t take them. They were still there when I left the office, if they were in the folder on your desk. If you want to know where they are, why don’t you watch the rest of your wretched surveillance tape? Maybe you should consider asking your creepy uncle, as well. After all, I saw him talking to that bloke Mordred from Avalon in the pub the other day, and so did Gwaine. He’s never thought much of me, maybe he didn’t think I’d recognise the guy. But it was him all right.”

He’s beginning to shake, now, and he dashes his hands across his eyes again, hoping to retain a small thread of dignity, as he backs towards the door of the flat. “Anyway. I’ll go now. I’ll come back for my stuff tomorrow,” he mumbles.

Arthur’s still looking at him, he thinks, but he can’t see well enough to judge his expression.

“Wait, Merlin, ” says Arthur. “I…I may have jumped to conclusions… I… please? Don’t go? I… I don’t know what to think.”

Through the fog of the hurt and tears, the vice around his heart, Merlin feels rather than sees Arthur’s uncertainty. He swallows, heart still juddering, and hesitates, realising that he is asking Arthur to choose between his friend, and his last living link to his mother. He hopes that Arthur has the sense to make the right choice. But it’s hard, hard when the shadow of distrust has fallen across their relationship.

Arthur’s still holding his present.

“Merlin, wait? Please? Don’t leave… I… need some time.” Arthur sighs, and, putting down the present carefully, sits down at a kitchen chair, rubbing at his forehead as if to iron out the furrows that have appeared there. Eyes clearing, Merlin sees that he’s looking intently at the picture, tracing the delicate carving of interleaved dragons on the frame with his fingers, his face in shadow. It’s a painting of Arthur’s parents. Merlin borrowed the original photo months ago, and he'd carved the picture frame himself. He adapted the picture, so that a laughing infant Arthur lies in his mother's arms, blond and cherubic.

“Where did you get this? Who painted it?”

Not trusting his voice, Merlin points at himself with a faint, wobbly smile.

“Where did you find this frame? Merlin?” Arthur’s tone is quiet now, neutral, and Merlin sure as hell can’t work out whether it’s approving or disapproving.

Merlin’s can’t bear this suspense, can’t bear it if Arthur laughs or hates the frame, the picture, because he poured so much of himself into it. He shakes his head and reaches behind himself for the door latch, turning to let himself out. He vaguely sees Arthur carefully setting the picture down on the table, hears Arthur striding across the room, feels Arthur’s hand on his, and he can’t move the doorknob, Arthur’s too strong.

“Where did you get it?” Arthur says again, a dangerous note in his voice, his hand clamped on Merlin’s to prevent him from twisting the handle.

“I made it, you prat,” he says, eventually, realising that Arthur was not going to let him out. “I couldn’t afford…” he sighs heavily. “It doesn’t matter. Just let me out.”

“No, Merlin, don’t. You can’t leave. I forbid it,” says Arthur in a low but insistent tone.

“Let me out, you bully.” Merlin’s voice starts to rise with his panic.

“No. Wait. Please?” Arthur touches his finger to Merlin’s cheekbone in a gesture of incredible tenderness, and Merlin looks up. His heart drops to his boots when he meets Arthur’s eyes. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, now,” says Merlin.

“No, it does. Because I’m not.”

Merlin’s confused. “Not what?”

Arthur swallows, his voice gruff, as he utters the line that casts all Merlin’s remaining equilibrium out of the window. “Straight, Merlin. I’m not straight.”

Merlin gapes. “ _What?”_ And now it’s Merlin’s turn to feel betrayed and outraged.“Why didn’t you tell me?” He buries the sudden faint hope that blossoms in his chest under a deep layer of resentment. “I’m your _friend_. I told you everything, how can you be so distrustful of me?” He pushes ineffectually at Arthur’s chest with his free hand.

Arthur swallows. “I’m so sorry, Merlin,” he says. “So sorry I didn’t tell you. No-one knows, except Morgana and Agravaine, I… I’m not out at work, my father wouldn’t have understood, I couldn’t…” His hand is still preventing Merlin’s from opening the door, still clutching on to him.

Merlin’s eyes sting. “I’m not like your bloody father,” he says hotly. “You could have told _me_ , for God’s sake.”

“I was going to, I swear, but I never found the right time.”

“And you think _now’s_ the right time? Bloody hell, Arthur.” Arthur’s insensitivity amazes him sometimes. What the hell did he think he was doing, lobbing that emotional hand grenade at Merlin? “Just... just let me go.”

“No.”

Arthur grabs his arms and pushes him against the wall again, and he braces himself for the pain, but this time it doesn’t come, because instead warm, soft lips are ghosting up against his, making his legs threaten to give way.

“The picture, the frame, they’re amazing, beyond amazing, the way you have captured my parents… and the dragons... God.” says Arthur. Merlin can taste salty tears, and stares, mesmerised. “No-one’s ever made me anything that beautiful. No-one’s ever cared enough for me to make me anything at all.” Arthur’s voice cracks, his lips twist, and the sight cuts through Merlin’s tears and panic. “And this… this… you… God.” Firm fingers whisper through Merlin’s hair, tuck a lock behind his ear.

“Arthur, what are you…” he says. But then he can’t speak, because a soft, gentle tongue pushes through Merlin’s lips, and a warm hand splays across his chest, sandwiching his ribs between it and his thudding heart, pinning him to the wall. Lips ghosting along his jaw make his spine tingle, his legs tremble.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Merlin. I... I want to be wrong. Tell me it's not you who's the traitor. I don’t want it to be you. I can’t believe it is you.” Arthur’s hard lean body is too close, he can feel muscles bunching and tensing, gusts of breath panting along his neck, his cheek.

“Stop it,” Merlin says, voice tremulous. Arthur’s strong, he’s crowding Merlin against the wall. Merlin can’t breathe, and he turns his head away. “Arthur!” he says again, heart pounding as he pushes, “you have to stop, you can’t do this.”

Arthur releases him then, and steps back. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He swallows and steps back, puts his hands to his head.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, I’m sorry, Merlin. I thought… no, that was unforgiveably presumptuous.”

Merlin knows he shouldn’t let this happen, but the sudden loss of Arthur’s warmth grieves him, and Arthur looks so lost, so vulnerable, that he can’t stop himself.

Making a quick decision, he steps forward. One hand drops to Arthur’s waist, and the other curls round his neck. Merlin presses his lips to Arthurs, and gasps at the eager response. He gives in to an impulse, digs under Arthur’s shirt until he feels skin, amazed at the heat of it. Arthur’s answering moan feels like a caress licking around his neck. He can see sweat forming under the golden hairs on Arthur’s throat and he wants to taste it, drink it in, suck and consume him.

Arthur’s lips are dark and flushed full. Their mouths close again and Arthur presses him up against the wall again, rolling his hips so that Merlin can feel his heat and hardness. It’s too fast, too quick, he can’t deal with the sensations, with the emotions.

“Arthur, wait,” he manages to gasp. “Please, wait, just...”

Arthur steps back, eyes haunted. “You don’t want this?” he says. “Because I do. I’ve never wanted anything this much. Did I hurt you?” he gulps. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was so angry, I’m so sorry.” The defeated way his shoulders slump as he moves off pains Merlin, slices between his ribs.

“That’s not what I meant,” Merlin says, quickly, to bring Arthur back, not wanting all these little misunderstandings _,_ which prick him like darts, drive Arthur away now, not now when there’s a painful gleam of hope washing through his heart. “I meant, don’t do this if you don’t mean it. Because this means—you mean—everything to me. I don’t think I could bear it if…”

“Of course I mean it, you blithering idiot.” Standing there with his hair all rucked up, his lips dark and swollen, his eyes blown wide and black with desire and adrenaline, Arthur has never looked more perfect. “Living here with you, with your kissable lips and your kindnesses, Merlin, it’s enough to drive a grown man insane.” There’s an earnest, almost pleading expression about him as his middle finger reaches up to massage his hairline nervously and his hand rakes through his hair.

“You doubted me,” Merlin says, trying not to let the hurt creep into his voice. Failing. “You don’t trust me.”

Arthur looks crushed. “I jumped to conclusions. It was what I feared the most, and so naturally I assumed it was true. Because… because I didn't think I deserved someone like you. You do so much for me Merlin, more than you know, just by being here, I... I knew you had to be too good to be true.”

How does he do that? Make Merlin’s heart melt in dribbly puddles all over the floor? It’s a terrible habit, he’s going to have to have words with him about that.

“You complete and utter idiot!” Merlin surges forward and pulls Arthur towards him, closes his eyes and tentatively presses his lips to Arthur's mouth.

When Arthur responds in kind, tongue flicking into Merlin’s mouth, probing and insistent, hot and sloppy, Merlin can't believe he's finally here, he's kissing his boss, and it feels so perfect he never wants it to stop. He lets his tongue and his teeth and lips show Arthur the depth of his feelings. Arthur murmurs into his mouth, breaking him and mending him with his hums and sighs.

When Arthur jams rough hands under Merlin’s belt, when his palm closes around Merlin’s fully erect prick, it makes Merlin hiss. He’s so keyed up he thinks he’ll come in his pants there and then.

“So hard for me, Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding awed.

Merlin rolls his hips into Arthur’s hand, seeking the friction, and reaches round Arthur’s hip towards that tantalising rear. Finally, at long last, after months of self restraint, he grasps a round cheek and squeezes it, using it to pull Arthur in closer.

“God, Arthur,” he says. “Your arse. There should be laws about it. There should be poems about it.” The friction from Arthur’s hand, his constraining pants, and his intense arousal at the perfection of Arthur’s amazing arse is driving him over the edge. He angles his hips forward, head tipping back.

When Arthur nuzzles and nips at his throat and presses against him, hot, and firm, he feels his whole body tense, tight and high and hard, so hard.

“Arthur,” he says, pleading, “I’m going to…" Arthur doesn't answer, but his breath hitches when he starts to slide his hand, hesitantly, up and down Merlin's cock, and that's enough to tip Merlin over the precipice into a brief moment of heart-stopping perfection, vision turning blank, sound muffled by the thudding of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, his legs threatening to give way. It’s a good thing Arthur’s holding him up.

“Don’t be,” When Arthur breathes into his neck, his lips soft and wet against Merlin's ear make him shiver. He reaches forward and tentatively strokes Arthur through his jeans. He’s still rock hard.

“I could do something about that, if you like,” says Merlin, smiling, drowsy-eyed. “Just give me a minute or two.”

Later he'll swear that Arthur actually whimpers.

Merlin sinks to the floor, heavy limbed, and with trembling fingers unhooks Arthur’s belt and button. The jeans, like giftwrap, have to be peeled off. They skid down. Slowly, he hooks his fingers under the elastic of Arthur’s underpants, dragging them down, hearing Arthur’s quiet sigh. Arthur's erect cock bobs up, heavy and expectant where he’s released it, and the expectation makes him gulp.

He looks up. Arthur's staring down at him, flushed kiss-pink.

“God, you’ve got a beautiful cock, Arthur,” he says, licking his lips, and there's another minute noise, a barely audible stutter in Arthur’s breathing. He nuzzles at Arthur’s dark-honey curls, intoxicated by his musk. He wraps one hand round a tautly muscled buttock, to ground himself, because, fuck, he’s got plans for those buttocks, later, and then gently wraps his lips around the glistening cockhead. He revels in the tiny desperate sounds that Arthur is making, the way that Arthur is rocking his hips gently, winding his fingers in Merlin’s hair.

“Your lips, Merlin. Your mouth. I’ve been imagining your lips like this for so long,” Arthur says, voice deep, hoarse. “I had no idea they would feel like this, look like this. Look at you. Oh, God, oh God, Merlin. Look at you.”

Merlin hums happily, taking Arthur as deeply as he can, messy and clumsy, holding the base of Arthur’s cock with his free hand, breathing. Arthur’s voice is distant, masked by the rushing in his ears. He tries to pull Merlin off him when he climaxes, but Merlin holds him in place and drinks in what he can.

Later, when he’s drowsing in Arthur’s bed, sweat moistening the place where his chest and thighs line up along the warm, honeyed skin of Arthur’s back, fingers idly tangling in Arthur’s curly chest hairs, he’ll wonder how he got here, how he can have all these magical things he’s dreamed of for so long. Later he’ll think of the future, of dozy mornings and late nights, of smiles and sloppy kisses, of yelling and making up, and fear of loss.

But here, now, with the gift of Arthur’s hot, wet bitter-saltness pulsing thickly into him, there are no thoughts, because this moment is everything.


	7. Dragonriders' Squeakybritches

They’re sitting munching noodles in bed, trying not to get soy sauce on Arthur’s bedclothes, when they finally get round to discussing the metaphorical elephant that's crept into the room, and is sitting in the corner, quietly twirling its trunk and flapping its great, grey ears to get their attention.

It’s Arthur who breaks first. “So. Agravaine.”

In the middle of shovelling in a mouthful of tofu, Merlin can’t speak at first. He looks at Arthur, chomps, swallows and wipes his mouth with a paper towel, wondering how he can put this. Before he can open his mouth to speak, Arthur beats him to it.

“You think he’s undermining me?” he says, face grave.

Merlin nods and pulls a face. This must be hard for Arthur, he doesn’t have that many relatives left since his father died, and Morgana ran off to take a sabbatical in San Francisco. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says, licking chilli sauce off his lips, “I know he’s your uncle, and everything, but he’s been acting a bit oddly recently, been a bit secretive. All those contracts keep going astray, and I can’t help thinking about the fact that no-one else has a key to your office except him and me. And then there’s that time when Gwaine and I saw him in the pub with this Mordred character, taking samples of all the Pendragon ales out…”

Arthur sighs. “He told me once that I should sack you because you are a sexual deviant, and he thinks homosexuals don’t know anything about beer.”

Merlin stares. “No!”

Nodding, Arthur crunches a prawn cracker. “Yup. I think he was trying to discredit you even then. This was – what – a couple of months ago? So of course I told him that I’m gay, too.”

Merlin, pops a prawn cracker into his mouth and lets it dissolve.

Arthur looks grave, his eyes are distant, remembering, thinking. Fighting a protective urge, a desire to kiss away the sadness in Arthur’s expression, Merlin strokes Arthur’s cheek with the back of a sticky finger.

“I wonder if that could be why he’s trying to undermine me… Or maybe he wants the brewery for himself?” He pauses, looking away and frowning, as if trying to remember something. “But then Father always thought Agravaine was ambitious,” he says, under his breath, “I think he even tried to warn me about him, once, and he left really strict instructions for the board in his will so that they wouldn’t appoint him… but when he offered to help out after Father died I…” Arthur shakes himself a little, as if returning to the present, and gives Merlin a wan smile before dipping his chopsticks into another carton. 

Merlin looks away when Arthur sucks in a mouthful of beansprouts, pursing his lips so that they disappear through a tiny gap. “Urgh! That’s gross!”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” says Arthur, wiping a glob of chilli sauce from Merlin’s chin.

“So what are we going to do now?” Giving up on the paper towel, which is now red and soggy, Arthur ducks down to lick the chilli sauce from Merlin’s face instead. His tongue is sticky and hot; it leaves cool, wet trails on Merlin’s stubbly cheeks.

Merlin can’t resist twisting to suck on that inquisitive tongue; the chilli makes his mouth tingle. He attacks it with his own tongue, probing Arthur’s mouth in little swirls to chase the favour. His eyes drift closed and he groans a little when Arthur pulls away.

Sighing, regretfully, at the loss of warmth, Merlin says “We review the surveillance tapes again, for confirmation, and see if Agravaine comes in after I leave.”

Arthur nods. “To think he managed to get me to suspect you,” he says, pouting and cupping Merlin’s cheek. “If I’d lost you… it would have ruined me, Merlin. If it’s him, I’m going to kill him.” Arthur pulls Merlin’s face to his, and they kiss again. It’s Arthur’s turn to sigh when this time Merlin breaks it off, and puts a soy-encrusted index finger to Arthur’s mouth until Arthur sucks it in.

“No, Arthur. Killing uncles, however evil, is frowned upon in this day and age.” Merlin pulls his wet finger out. “I’ll report him to the police, then,” says Arthur, chasing it and giving it a playful nip.

“Ow! On what basis? Stealing an idea? It’s dishonest, yes, but is it criminal?”

“It is in my book.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Toying with a spring roll, Arthur sighs, heavily.

“I suppose I’ll have to confront him or something,” he says, mouth turned sulkily down at the corners, hand reaching up to rub at his hairline like it always does when he’s nervous. Resisting the temptation to kiss those lips until they turn the right way up again, Merlin eyes him slyly. He’s had an idea; he wonders if Arthur will go along with it.

“What?” says Arthur, eyes narrowing. “You’re plotting something, aren’t you?”

Merlin smirks as he nods. Oh yes. This will be fun.

Arthur pops the spring roll in his mouth and eats it whole. Then he moves the tray off their laps onto the floor. “Come on then, Merlin, out with it,” he says, crawling back onto the bed so that his hands are on either side of Merlin’s chest, and his naked legs straddle Merlin’s thighs.

“I’m not saying anything,” Merlin says, “until you deal with a more urgent problem.”  He looks pointedly down at his growing erection.

“Bossy,” says Arthur, who, by the look of the bulge in his underpants, has a similar predicament. “Cheeky. Demanding.” When Arthur rolls his hips, it confirms this hypothesis. Merlin groans as Arthur clamps his thighs together, so that Merlin can’t move. 

After they’ve dealt with their mutual problem, they lie contentedly for a few minutes. Merlin gazes at the moving pattern of light on the ceiling, painted by the reflections from Arthur’s ring as he traces circles with his finger on Merlin’s chest.

“So, what’s this great plan of yours?” says Arthur.

Merlin’s grin splits his face from ear to ear. “We’d better check the recording first,” he says, “just to check that it’s him. But if it is, I reckon you’re going to love this.”

And Arthur does.


	8. Deviant Dragon's Dark Delight

“Good morning Arthur.”

“Ah, Uncle. I’m glad you’re here. Merlin, would you mind leaving us for a moment?”

Merlin nods and leaves the room.

Agravaine sits on the edge of Arthur’s desk, index fingernail picking away at the skin alongside his thumb. It makes a high-pitched “tick” noise which sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. Tick, tick tick. From time to time he switches fingers. The middle finger makes a slightly duller sound. As Agravaine worries away at the dead skin, the sound gets raspier and rougher until finally a sliver of skin breaks off and Agravaine puts it to his mouth.

Shuddering, Arthur tears his eyes away from his uncle’s restless fingers for a minute, coughs and rustles the papers on his desk. “I’ve come up with a new idea for a line of ales that you might appreciate, but I didn’t want to mention it in front of Merlin.” He taps his nose. “Top secret, you see. And I didn’t want him to hear our conversation.”

“I’m glad you are being cautious,” says Agravaine, and how come Arthur hasn’t noticed before that his uncle doesn’t meet his eyes when he’s speaking? That he keeps a safe distance from Arthur, won’t shake his hand or touch him, that he makes sure there’s an item of furniture between them at all times?

Arthur nods. “Yes. Well. Before I ask him back in, there’s something I want to say to you.” He stands up and walks round the desk and puts out a hand to Agravaine’s shoulder, watches his uncle flinch and step away.

Arthur nods again. Now he’s looking closely he can read many things in Agravaine’s expression. Fear, disgust, contempt.  

Guilt.

“Uncle, I don’t believe that Merlin has been acting against the Pendragon Brewery. In fact, when I confronted him about the situation, something rather amazing happened. I have come to appreciate how loyal and dependable he is, how much I owe him. Without going into details—" and he can't help blushing and looking away, when the evidence for those details is still present in the rather stiff way he is walking this morning, "—I am totally convinced that Merlin is incapable of—"

Agravaine's lip is curling into an ugly sneer. "No need to go on, Arthur. It's written all over your face. The filthy little pervert has had his way with you hasn't he? No wonder your judgment is impaired."

Something inside Arthur snaps. He has been restrained until now, willing to be civilised, willing to meet his Uncle half way, but Agravaine is burning his bridges.

"Fine!" says Arthur, pursing his lips together to suppress his rage at Agravaine's offensive language. "Have it your way. Merlin and I are lovers. We are _shagging_.”

He hisses this word, inches from Agravaine’s ear, and Agravaine shies away from him again, looking like he wants to vomit.

“But, nevertheless, unfortunately, you are right about one thing," says Arthur. "Someone within this organisation has been acting against us. Against me. Cancelling orders. Losing proposals from suppliers. Talking to our competitors. That sort of thing. Borderline criminal activity. Certainly in breach of contract.”

He steps up to Agravaine, nose to nose, crowding his space until Agravaine bends his neck back, eyes wide in alarm.

"And it's not Merlin. So who is it?" Arthur jabs Agravaine hard, in the chest, with a finger. "Uncle."

Agravaine's bluster seems to diminish as Arthur crowds him, backs him into a corner.

“Well, Arthur, I… I… Are you sure? I mean, who...? Could it be Gwaine, perhaps? If you’re sure it’s not your… erm. Boyfriend.” Agravaine’s mouth is turned down at the corners and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead.

Arthur shakes his head sorrowfully, goes back round to his seat, fires up a tablet computer, pushes it across the table.

“I don’t think so, Uncle. You see, I thought your advice to set a trap was excellent. But then I thought I’d go a little further than you suggested.” He points up at the wall. “I installed a surveillance camera. Just there. It’s well hidden, you wouldn’t even know it was there. Trying to catch whoever-it-was out, doing whatever they wanted to do. And look what I found.”

He can see the Adam’s apple bob up on Agravaine’s throat as he looks up at the camera, swallows convulsively, and starts to sidle towards the door.

“Leaving us so soon, boss?” drawls a voice from the open doorway. Gwaine’s standing there, leaning against the door-frame, blocking the exit, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Ermmm—no—it’s just… well, Arthur, I,” Agravaine begins.

Gwaine steps inside, closes the door behind him. “Good,” he says. “Merlin told me there was a little video clip for my amusement in here. Thought I’d take a look at it. I might see someone I know.”

Arthur starts the clip on the tablet. “Here,” he says, grinning at Gwaine. “It’s a slow start, but there’s some interesting action later on.”

At first the screen shows only the empty room, with Arthur’s desk prominent in the middle. Then the door opens and someone shoulders through. It’s Agravaine, his face clearly visible.

“There, Uncle, what a surprise to see you coming into my office when I’m not there,” says Arthur. Arthur is watching Agravaine’s face now as he regards the clip. He looks pale, tense, jaw set. His eyes dart about, as if looking for an escape.

Arthur knows what happens next in the clip. The door opens again and another man steps through.

“Wait a minute,” says Gwaine, pointing. Arthur pauses the clip and Gwaine peers intently at the screen. “Isn’t that the bloke we saw old Aggie, here, with, in the pub the other night?”

Agravaine doesn’t say anything when Arthur nods at Gwaine.

“That, Gwaine, is Mordred Lothian, the new creative director of Avalon Brewery,” says Arthur. “I wonder what he is doing in my office late at night? With my Marketing director? And you say you saw him in the pub the other night? Tasting our new beers? How peculiar. How _queer_ , wouldn’t you say uncle?”

Agravaine has backed up towards the door and his hand is on the handle. “Erm, Arthur, I, can explain…” he starts, again. Arthur walks over to his uncle, watches him squirm and try to escape from his proximity. He leans forward so that Agravaine can feel his breath on his face, grips his shoulder, feels it tremor under his fingers. Agravaine squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away.

“Don’t bother trying to explain, Uncle,” says Arthur. “I can’t think of a single thing that you could say to make me believe you had Camelot’s best interests at heart by letting that man into the office, and giving him the plans to our secret Yuletide ale recipe. The fact that you tried to frame Merlin for the act is frankly despicable. The only question I have for you now, before I ask Merlin and Gwaine to escort you from the premises for a final time, is this."

Agravaine’s backed up against the door, as far from Arthur as he can put himself, eyes shadowed, mouth set in a sulky-looking upturned ‘u’ shape.

“Why?” says Arthur.

 There’s a long silence.

“You.” Says Agravaine eventually, his voice low and defiant at first, and then rising with his passion. “You... you... _Pendragons_ have taken everything from me. My sister’s brewery was taken from her by your poisonous father when she died. It was stolen from me, and given to you when he finally, at long last, died, doing us all a favour, may he rot in hell. By rights it should be mine. And, like most homosexuals, you know nothing about beer, about the market for our products. You persist in your low-growth strategy, you have not listened to a word of my advice, too arrogant to take on board my superior business knowledge…”

Arthur puts up a hand to stop him. He sighs. “It’s clear that we are not aligned. I have made a gross error of judgment in trusting your words. Perhaps out of misplaced sentiment, knowing that you loved my mother, I will not be charging you for gross professional misconduct. Instead I will present you with a choice.”

Arthur walks away from Agravaine, who straightens up as Arthur approaches the desk and picks up a piece of paper, passing it to his uncle before he sits down at his desk again, with his hands crossed in what he hopes is a magisterial pose.

“Either you leave, today, and never return,” he says, interleaving his fingers, “or you devise a marketing strategy for this innovative new line of ales.”

Agravaine’s eyes flick over the page. When he looks up again they are like narrow, spiteful slits, and his mouth puckers in vengeful resentment.  He screws the paper up into a ball, and throws it at Arthur, narrowly missing him.

“Screw you, you… you… _sodomite_. I resign,” he says, turning to the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle before leaving. “This brewery will sink without a trace with you at the helm, Pendragon. And I’ll get you for this, you bloody poof... and as for that that evil little queer who seduced you...” 

“Yes, well, I’m  glad I asked Merlin to leave the room, because I really didn’t want him to hear your disgusting homophobic rant. That will be all, uncle,” says Arthur, cutting off this vile stream of hatred and bile with a gesture, and pressing a button on his intercom. “Merlin, would you come back in please? My uncle is leaving, and I’d like us both to escort him from the premises.”

“Yes, Mr Pendragon, sir,” says a pert-sounding voice that makes Arthur grin inwardly, despite the tension and stink of stress in the room.

***

Later, after a livid-faced Agravaine duBois drives off in a swirl of dust and sour grapes, Arthur calls Gwaine and Merlin back in.

“Gwaine,” he says. “I find myself without a marketing director. I have the board’s full backing, and Merlin’s of course, which is more important. We’d like to offer you the post.”

He turns to Merlin. “And as for you,” he says, ignoring Gwaine’s loud whoop, and the clatter of his footsteps down the corridor as he dances off to tell the brewing team his good news, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I suppose I’d better promote you as well, in recognition of the fact that you already probably run this place pretty much single-handed. I can’t think of a job title that reflects what you do, so for now you can be Associate Creative Director.”

“Thanks, boss!” Smiling broadly, with that delighted expression that makes Arthur want to kiss his eyelids and lick his dimples, Merlin bends, picks up the piece of scrunched-up piece of Pendragon Breweries headed notepaper that Agravaine tossed to the floor, and straightens it out.

It lists three proposed beers to “attract the pink pound.”

 **Golden Ale:** Rainbow Dragon’s Golden Ale

 **Bitter:**   Bottombangers Best Bitter

 **Stout:** Deviant Dragon’s Dark Delight

Merlin chuckles. They had enjoyed dreaming up the beer names. “I think you should have this framed,” he says. “I know someone who can make really good picture frames…?”

“I’ve got an even better idea,” says Arthur pulling him close and nuzzling his neck. “Let’s release them. It’s about time the gay community got something better to drink than vodka-and-cranberry.”

Merlin grins at him. “I wondered what you and Gwaine were muttering about earlier! I knew there had to be something brewing!” he says.


	9. Epilogue: Special Cheeky Owd Blond Dragon

“I suppose this means Arthur knows all your secrets now?” says Gwaine. “A pint of Scaly Owd Dragonballs for me please, Elena.” They’re in the usual place, and Gwaine’s celebrating his promotion.

Merlin smiles. He knows what Gwaine’s really asking. “Yeah, that’s right. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Great, now everyone knows I’ve got one. Plonker. What're you having Arthur?”

“As you’re paying, Gwaine, I’ll have a pint of the Special Owd Cheeky Blond Dragon.”

Gwaine lets out a put-upon sigh. “Of course you will. Because it’s most expensive brew in the house. You should change its name to “Entitled Prat”. Merlin? What’s your poison?”

“I’ll have a pint of Dragonhumpers please Elena,” says Merlin after he’s wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes.

Gwaine leans forward on the bar; Merlin’s got his back to it, one foot on the footrail, and an elbow on a not-too-clean beer towel. Arthur’s carrying two pint glasses over to the table.

“And whatever you’re having, Elena, and one for the delicious Mithian too, of course,” Gwaine says, smirking and doing his accustomed leer.

This time it’s Mithian who turns round, and seeing him ogling Elena’s tits, slaps him soundly round the chops. “Most kind. We’ll have a couple of pints of Rainbow Dragon’s Golden Ale, thanks Gwaine,” she says, with a cheeky grin, pressing a kiss to Elena’s cheek. Elena turns to her, smiling and pulls her in for a full-blown snog.

The crestfallen look on Gwaine’s face is priceless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My enormous thanks to the moderators for organising this brilliant fest. 
> 
> The beers in the story are all pretend - however, in case you think their names seem far-fetched, I invite you to examine, for example, the range of real ales on offer from the very marvellously named _Wyre Piddle_ brewery, based in Worcestershire:  
>  http://www.d2engineering.co.uk/greatbritishbeer/breweryDetails.asp?Id=489  
> Oh yes, you really can choose between "Piddle in the Snow" and "Dragon's Revenge" in real pubs in Evesham. Mine's a pint.


End file.
